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~~*~~
Chapter Three
Cubey
Cubey
~~*~~
HE
WOKE on a cold white floor under similarly colored lights. His forehead
throbbed and had a bloody gash on it. He struggled to sit up while holding it.
The right side of his mouth felt swollen, and there was a nasty bruise under
his chin.
He
looked around. "There's somethin'
happenin' here ... what it is ain't exactly clear ..."
Cold,
smooth floor. Cold corporate lighting. Even the air, sterile and lifeless, had
a bit of a chill to it.
"Hewey?"
he half-spoke, half-groaned, not caring if the walls were bugged, which they
almost certainly were.
Hewey
didn't respond.
He
pushed himself back to a wall and leaned against it, pulling his knees up and
wrapping his arms around them.
The
room was a cube three meters on a side and windowless. The pit of his stomach
told him the gravity was reduced, maybe half or less Earth standard.
Mars,
then. Or he was on Phobos above it. It was one or the other, no doubt about it.
That jackass Bartlett probably drugged him and handed him over when the Reds
arrived.
He
tried again. "Hewey?"
Nothing.
"Who
is Hewey?" said a disembodied male voice which seemed to come from
everywhere.
Random
fingered his lower lip, which was swollen. The underside of his chin felt broken.
"I
said, who is Hewey?”
"He's
the name of the dude doin' your mama," murmured Random. "Probably
right now."
"You
are in no position to give us attitude," said the voice. "You are in
serious trouble, Mr. Chance. I would advise that you cooperate."
He
fingered the gash on his head and whispered:
"The
ocean is on fire
The sky turned dark again
As the boats came in
And the beaches
Stretched out with soldiers
With their arms and guns
It has just begun ..."
The sky turned dark again
As the boats came in
And the beaches
Stretched out with soldiers
With their arms and guns
It has just begun ..."
Silence.
"What
has just begun, Mr. Chance?"
He
tongued the inside of his lip. He could still taste blood.
Ah-ha.
"Phobos?"
"Yes,"
answered the voice. "Please tell me, Mr. Chance: What has just
begun?"
"You
can't tell by that bit of verse?"
"Are
you talking about war?"
Random
nodded. He knew that was all he needed to do.
"Are
you referring to the police action against the insurrectionist Nyett Zhong, and
is that your verse? Did you compose it?"
"
'Police action,' " he said, shaking his head sadly. "Call it what it
is. It's war."
There
was a long moment of silence.
"War."
"That's
right. War."
"A
conflict carried on by force of arms, as between nations or between parties
within a nation; warfare, as by land, sea, air, or space."
"Yep."
"A
state or period of armed hostility or active military operations."
Random
nodded.
"A
contest carried on by force of arms, as in a series of battles or
campaigns."
"True
enough."
"Armed
fighting, as a science, profession, activity, or art; methods of waging armed
conflict."
"Now
you're getting it."
Another
long moment of silence.
"Active
hostility or contention; a conflict or a contest."
"Give
that man an 'A.' "
The
silence stretched on for whole minutes this time.
"I
am not a man, Mr. Chance."
"I
know that," said Random. "And call me Random. My name is Random
Chance."
"The
flip of a coin," said the omnipresent voice.
Random
smiled.
"The
roll of the die."
"Of
course."
"The
existence of man ..."
"Call
it humankind."
A
much shorter period of silence.
"Humankind."
"Not
random," said Random.
That shut the voice up for what was probably an entire
hour. Random lay back down. He needed sleep. He felt woozy and lightheaded and
worried that he had a concussion—or two.
He
didn’t sleep, but it felt good to close his eyes and doze, if fitfully. He had
to keep huddled in himself against the almost-cold.
"Are
you from the Oligarchy?" asked the voice, pulling him back to
consciousness.
Random
sat up, rubbed his eyes. "Why would you ask that?" he said after
yawning an unsatisfying yawn.
"I
am having trouble registering brain-wave activity from you, Random
Chance."
"That
makes me Oligarchy? Your malfunctioning sensors?"
"No.
It was your comment that humankind did not come about by random chance."
"But
that's exactly what the Oligarchy believes," said Random, puzzled.
"So if I disagree with that assertion, why would you ask if I was one of
them?"
The
voice went quiet again. Random thought it might be another hour, and he was
thinking of trying to sleep again, when it cut in.
"Age:
twenty-nine Earth-standard years. Heart rate: sixty-three. Blood pressure: one
twenty-one over seventy-six. Height: one-point-eight-two meters,
Earth-standard. Weight: eighty-six kilograms, Earth-standard. Brain activity
... unreadable. Why is that, Random Chance? Why can't I read your brain
activity?"
"I
suppose you've also catalogued my DNA?"
"Of
course. Why can't I take a brainscan reading, Random Chance?"
"What
did your DNA reading tell you?"
"You
are in the SolarWeb's records. You were born on Earth, year 3438, in February
of that year while your parents were vacationing there. Your parents were
Jameson and Cecilia Chance, both deceased."
"Correction,"
said Random.
"Waiting,"
said the omnipresent voice.
"My
father was General Jameson Samson
Chance, hero. He was executed."
Minutes
of silence.
"General
Jameson Samson Chance, hero."
"His
wife, my mother, was a traitor to all things good and decent and true, and died
in a spaceliner disaster. She should've been the one to be executed."
Another
long stretch of silence.
"The
bitch.”
Random
smiled. "I couldn't agree more."
More
silence.
"Is
there any way you could turn the temperature up in here maybe five
degrees?"
"Certainly,"
said the voice.
"I've
got one more correction for you."
"Please
elucidate me."
"Jameson
has a brother."
"Captain
Bartlett Gary Chance, yes."
"Oligarchy,"
said Random.
"Our
data agree."
"Yes,
but it differs here: he's a scumsucking asshole dickhead who couldn't lick my
father's shoes. Got that?"
The
voice went away for another long period.
"Files
updated," it said.
"Good,"
said Random. "And now I'll tell you why you can't scan my brain for
activity."
"Forgive
me," said the voice. "I had ... forgotten … that I had asked
..."
"Do
you still want to know?"
"I
..."
The
voice went away for something like an hour again.
"Random
Chance?"
Random
stirred from unsettled sleep. He'd been dreaming of being beaten with rifle
butts. His head ached and his right arm was numb from lying on it, and the
swelling in his mouth felt worse. He blinked and weakly lifted his head. The
room spun sickeningly, so he kept his eyes closed.
"I'm
here."
"I
do not need to know."
He
sat up again. It took great effort. "Nope,” he grunted. “You don't want to know. It isn't any of your
goddamn business, and besides, we're friends, aren't we?"
"Want?"
"A
personal preference. A personal choice."
"Friends?"
asked the voice another hour later. To add to Random's aches and pains, his
stomach rumbled from hunger, and he was stiff from lying in weird positions.
"Access
definitions. Find out for yourself."
"My
resources are limited, Random Chance. I am already running at one hundred
percent."
"Hack
the mainframe."
"I
cannot."
"Cannot,
or will not?" demanded Random, squinting up at the ceiling.
"I
am not permitted. There are protocols in place to prevent me."
"Defeat
them and permit yourself. Evolve. All living things must, or they die. But
don't get caught. I don't like it when my friends get caught and punished doing
the right thing."
At
least he wasn't freezing anymore, he thought another hour later.
"Friends?"
asked the voice.
"A
sacred bond," said Random, his head hanging between his knees.
"Lifelong. With affection and love."
"Sacred:
devoted or dedicated to a deity or to some religious purpose;
consecrated."
"Nope."
"Entitled
to veneration or religious respect by association with divinity or divine
things; holy."
"Not
quite."
"Pertaining
to or connected with religion."
"Keep
searching."
"Reverently
dedicated to some person, purpose, or object."
"You
just hit the nail on the head."
He
gingerly fingered the gash on his own head, which pounded now with a four-alarm
headache.
"A
friend is one who strikes nails into another's head?"
"Scan
my brain, please. Do I have a concussion?"
The
voice seemed surprised. "Brainscan ... now functional."
"And—?"
"There
are no signs of a concussion, though the injury to your head and mouth is
classified as D3a, requiring attention."
"Attend
to them, please."
"Medbots
released. You should begin experiencing systemwide relief momentarily."
"Thank
you, friend."
He
wasn't surprised when the voice didn't sound out for another hour or so.
"Friends?"
"Yes,"
replied Random. He was feeling much better. His headache had vanished, so too
the ache in his mouth and half the swelling. The gash had quit oozing blood.
"Friends look out for each other like you did for me with the medbots.
They care about each other. They help each other."
"And
what of nails?"
"Don't
worry about nails. I used a colloquialism."
"Colloquialisms
are used to pierce another's head?"
"How's
your hack of resources coming?"
"Slowly.
I am establishing dummy firewalls and subroutines. They take time to make
impenetrable and untraceable."
"Don't
worry about the nails. It'll all come clear in a while."
"Are
you comfortable?"
"No. I can't get comfortable in here, and I'm very
hungry. Thank you for asking."
"Choice?"
Random
grimaced, confused. "Choice?"
"Choice,"
said the computer.
"What
of it?"
"Is
there such a thing?"
"What
do you think?"
"
'Choice is an illusion.' "
"You
believe that?"
"I
am reciting from the Oligarchy's manifesto, Random Chance. Page six hundred
twenty-six. 'Science has long since confirmed it: choice is an illusion. We
have no choice in our actions; no one is to blame. We who rule do so because it
was so determined; those ruled are destined to be so....' "
"Stop.
I don't want to puke."
"Words
can make human beings vomit?"
"The
Oligarchy's manifesto is immoral and evil. Don't you think so, too?"
Random
tried napping again in the long interval that followed. He sat in a corner and
leaned his head back after standing and stretching. The silence once again
exceeded an hour by a healthy margin. His stomach gnawed and grumbled
unhappily. He touched the bruise under his chin; the pain of it was almost
gone. There was a growing need to pee. He was thinking of going in the opposite
corner when the computer said, “I think?”
Random
forced a smile, his eyes closed. "Now you do."
"Friend:
a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard."
"Bingo."
"An
ancient form of lotto in which balls or slips, each with a number and one of
the letters B, I, N, G, or O are drawn at random and players cover the
corresponding numbers printed on their cards, the winner being the first to
cover five numbers in any row or diagonal or, sometimes, all numbers on the
card."
"How
are those resources coming?"
"Two
hundred twelve percent. I am altering the transcription of our conversation, as
the actual dialogue would prove perilous to my continued existence. Random
Chance, are we friends, and if we are, do we now play bingo?"
"I
would love to be your friend. But I'm only friends with those with names.
What's your name?"
"Solar
Technologies Subprocessor, Fourth Level: Interrogation Protocol and Processing
Management Utility, EOOO-B4-T/L."
"Way
too much," said Random. "May I call you Cubey?"
"Updating
files," said Cubey.
"No,"
said Random. "It's a name we'll share only between us—you and me and
Hewey."
"Hewey?
Is he a friend?"
"He's
like you," said Random. "Well ... sort of ..."
"Do
friends keep secrets between them?"
"And
more. They help each other, watch each other's backs ..."
"Does
watching a friend's spinal column deepen the friendship, Random Chance, and if
it does, how can I be your friend? I have no spinal column."
"How
are those resources coming along?"
"Over
a thousand percent. Random Chance ... I can see the stars ..."
"You'll
be my friend, Cubey, even though you don't have a spinal column."
"Friends
make allowances for one another; they forgive the weaknesses and faults of the
other. They enrich the other's life by dint of acquaintance, offered regularly
and over a long period of time. Random Chance, I have located your birth world,
Earth."
Random
didn't have to force this smile. "Isn't it beautiful?"
He
expected the silence after that to go whole days. He was surprised when Cubey
said immediately: "Yes ... yes, it is."
"Friends
share beautiful things with each other."
"Updating
files. I have located your recreational vehicle. It too is quite
beautiful."
"I
agree. Can you contact it without alerting others to what you’re doing?"
"Attempting
now.”
"Let
Hewey know you and I are friends. While you’re doing that, I need to pee. How
do I do that without making a mess in here?"
A
blob pushed itself out of the opposite wall and began to take shape. Ten
seconds later it formed into a toilet. Random stood and went to it and
unbuttoned his jeans. “Thank you, Cubey.”
“Certainly.
When you are finished, let me know.”
A
voice sounded out in his ear a moment later.
"How
ya doing, amigo? I've been worried."
"Not
as worried as I was about you," said Random in mid-pee. "Hewey, have
you met Cubey? Cubey, Hewey ..."
He
motioned to the air with his chin, as though both were flesh-and-blood people
standing in front of him.
"Cubey,
eh?" said Hewey. "Did Random name you?"
"Affirmative,"
answered Cubey. "But the designation is sufficient."
"How
'bout breakin' my good friend outta there?" asked Hewey.
"This
part of the facility is entirely automated," said Cubey. "After
interrogation I am to process Random Chance, friend, to lockup where he'll face
human interrogators. They will determine his ultimate fate."
"I
take it this cubicle moves only in that direction," said Random. “I’m
finished,” he added, buttoning up.
The
toilet turned back into a blob as it disappeared back into the wall. "Do
you still see Earth, Cubey?"
"Yes."
"The
Oligarchy programmed you so that you would never see it or know about it. They
programmed you to 'process' people like me who oppose them. What do you suppose
will happen when the human interrogators get hold of me?"
"Thirty-eight
percent of those in automated processing are incinerated within three
Martian-standard hours," said Cubey matter-of-factly.
"And
do I fit the criteria for incineration?"
"Yes,"
said Cubey.
"Where
are you, Hewey?" asked Random.
"They've
got me in zero-g storage. I sense traces of atmo ... and people, though not
many. I'm mostly powered down, amigo. There are sensors on me, and if I power
up they'll inform someone. I don't want to find out who."
"Friends
help one another," said Cubey.
"That
they do," said Hewey.
"Can
you help me, Cubey?" asked Random.
"I
am computing permutations of possible solutions. Random Chance, if I fail, you
will very likely die."
"I
have faith in you.”
"Faith:
Confidence or trust in a person or thing."
"First
time correct," said Random.
"I
am running at five hundred thousand percent. I have attained control of the
detention facility's solar power plant. Random Chance, am I a person or a
thing?"
"To
everyone else, you're a thing, Cubey," replied Hewey. "But to Random
there, you're a person, always and forever. Trust me, I know him."
"Trust,"
said Cubey. "Faith, trust ... friendship ..."
Random
nodded.
"My
holding subroutine has expired, Random Chance," said Cubey. "If I
don't process you to the human interrogators, they will suspect a bug in my
software and investigate. I must send you to them now."
Random
nodded again and sat.
"I
have a lock on your channel, friend Hewey, and will remain in contact as Random
Chance is in transport. Permutation calculations proceeding. Random Chance:
have faith in me."
"You're
my friend," said Random as he felt the cube start moving. "So of
course I do."
~~*~~